Recently, my sister dug up this copy of a poem (mini-essay?, musing? dramatic aside?) that I wrote in the fourth grade. It is obviously a pack of lies meant to curry favor with teachers and parents.

Well today is a snow day. No school. No babysitter. An itemized list of pantry items would only include: microwave popcorn, diet coke, bread, rotten salad greens. So in the same spirit of the original “Snowbound”, (i.e. lying), I submit for your consideration “Snowbound (Redux, 2011)”

If I were snowbound, with two kids, but nothing serious to worry about,
I would like to spend my time doing these things:
Frolicking in the snow,
making Paper Mache action figures and
trying my hand at home schooling.
The reason for the frolicking is outdoor time is magical.
The reason for the paper mache is television is not good.
The reason for home schooling is because there’s no such thing as a snow day.

My husband had to go to Hong Kong for business this week, which is completely amazing for him and completely de-mazing for me.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel completely sorry for him that he has to sit alone, undisturbed, for 16 hours while people only talk to him to say “sir, can I get you a drink?” My heart breaks a little, too, when I think of the church-like quiet of a business-grade hotel room with nothing but an internet connection and television to distract him from his grief. I also wipe away a tear when I think how he doesn’t get a home cooked meal and has to choke down the meager culinary offerings of a rich, thriving and world-class city. I digress…

The most important thing that we can do as a family during these trips is to try to keep in touch. Phone calls of this nature used to be fairly one-sided, with the little one holding the phone to his hair, staring into the distance and saying nothing until I prompted him to finally whisper “I wuv you dada, bye-bye.” Sadly, over the past week, I’ve discovered that my son’s conversational skills have really blossomed since Dad’s last trip.

Instead of the usual treacle, my son now uses these daily calls to vent about the poor service he’s been subjected to since his father has left town. The daily check in call has become his own customer complaint line.

On Monday night, after catching me checking my email on the computer upstairs: “Mommy cannot use Dada’s computer! That is his toy to play with and it is his upstairs. Mommy’s work is downstairs and mama should not play with Dada’s computer. It is his work. Not mama’s. Right mama?”

On Tuesday morning, after I turned off the television to take the dear boy to school: “Dada, mama turned Lightning McQueen off before I was done and I wanted to watch it and I do not want to go to school [overheard sympathetic mutterings on Hong Kong end.]” Boy looks relieved to finally be talking to someone who understands. He aims his worst stink eye expression at me.

On Wednesday night, after making pasta with peas and cheese: “Dada, hello. I wanted it plain, but it is not plain. I like it dry. It is too sticky. I’m not going to eat it because I said I wanted it clean and dry and it isn’t. [overheard, more sympathetic mutterings on Hong Kong end.]“

Things I’m glad went unmentioned: “Mama is drinking all of your good bourbon,”“Mama said she’s going to Daytona for Spring Break by herself,” and/or “Our new babysitter’s name is Ron.”

These solo parenting stints are hard enough without having to worry about spin control. For the next trip, I’m going to be much smarter about things. I’m going to hire a child actor to perform pre-recorded messages that report nothing but finished meals, joyful mornings and enriching play activities. I will also tell this child to tell “Dada” to skip the chow fun and squirrel away some of those per diem dollars to buy Mama some nice duty-free diamonds at the airport for all the pain and suffering the trip has caused.

How do you say “Please, for the love of all that is holy and good don’t ever go to Asia for a week again” in Chinese?

I’ve been spending a lot of time with my kid lately. We haven’t met many new people yet, so I’m basically her only playmate (I’m seriously afraid of what our neighbors will think of our recycling. Vodka-chardonnay-proseco-bacardi-cocktail anyone?). Without her usual posse, she needs a lot of attention from mom. Yet everyday, I mistakenly think I can take the time to do something for myself. . . like blog, or pee, or eat. Every single time I sit down I get a request for something, like juice, goldfish crackers. . . or these totally annoying gems:

The writing of this blog post was temporarily interrupted to photograph this baby in the grocery cart. Important business!

Just seconds ago as I sat down to work on my blog post: “Mom. I need you to take a picture of my baby in this grocery cart. She’s sleeping and wants you to take a picture because she looks so cute.”

After I do leave room to pee (risky. So risky!) . . . I come back to find daughter speaking on phone to telemarketer from New Jersey Star Ledger. Fabulous.

Call the Easter Bunny and tell him NOT to come into the house. DO IT NOW.

The puzzle here is that as long as I’m standing up and like, washing the dishes or folding laundry I might be left alone. Who is she Glenn Beck? I’m trying to take this one day, I mean one hour. . . actually I mean one cocktail (don’t panic – it’s not until AFTER BEDTIME and after my husband is home people!) at a time. We’ll get it together. . . make friends, get back on schedule, etc. etc. Until then I think I’m going to have to just tell her to find her own raisin. But as for the Easter Bunny – I’m absolutely willing to place that call. As soon as June gets t off the phone.

Is it just me, or do the weekends sometimes seem harder with the kids than the average weekday? For me, the trouble starts on Friday afternoon. Typically, my husband calls me and asks me what we should do tonight. That’s kind of like asking an inmate at Sing Sing whether they are summering in the Hamptons or on the Vineyard. And so it begins, the persistent lowering of the bar of what we can and can’t do on Saturday and Sunday.

First off, as a parent to small children, Friday night no longer exists. It should be called Sameaseveryothernightday night. You finish your day, relieved. But why do you feel relieved you stupid idiot? There’s no break coming! There’s no babysitter booked! There’s no time machine waiting! There’s just the regular number of hours between when your children fall asleep and when they wake up. For our house, it’s seven measly hours. How on earth are you going to spend the time? Eating what’s left of your kids’ macaroni and cheese, not doing the dishes and falling asleep in front of Supernanny? That sounds about right.

The weekend is broken down into four wickedly short/long shifts: Saturday Morning, Saturday Afternoon, Sunday Morning, Sunday Afternoon. In these non-napping time slots, we usually try to fit in everything that our life requires outside of the work week. Trips to the hardware store, esoteric, yet nagging house chores, conversations with each other as husband as wife, any activity at all as a family. The problem is, our dumb brains wake up on Saturday and still think it’s Saturday (like it was in 1993), instead of realizing it’s the kick off of a “move it or lose it” race against time to keep the children happy, fed, occupied, entertained, rested and subdued. Or as my husband likes to say “let’s keep the kids from getting captured.”

And with disappointment, comes conflict. Invariably, we butt heads, once, twice, maybe one thousand times over trivial things because we’re both desperately clamoring for our weekend time. Or at least, we pine for “the time formerly known as the weekend.” But seeing as how our weekends are the only time we have as a family, it can’t be good for our kids to see us so locked in battle for down time that doesn’t exist. It. just. doesn’t. exist.

So, in the wake of the weekend wreckage, here I type on Sunday night trying to formulate a strategy to survive Saturday and Sunday in tact.

1. Schedule. Just because it’s the weekend, doesn’t mean we should just throw away the idea of a schedule and play everything by ear. Our family always falls into this trap. On the days when we don’t plan anything, the kids are in their pajamas until 11 and we spend the whole morning passively aggressively trying to get the other one to watch the kids while the other one tries to go back to bed. We’re both exhausted and irritated by the time 1:00pm rolls around. A schedule is an objective third-party arbitrator in this case. Activities don’t have to be set in stone, but I think it’s a good idea to lay down some general guidelines about how the hours of the weekend will be spent.

2. Split up. You take one of the four shifts, your partner takes another. Simple as that. Maybe it doesn’t seem fair (especially if you have the kids all week), but it will keep the peace and good will flowing. Everyone needs some alone time to look forward to.

3. Surrender. In the other two shifts, do stuff as a family together. Don’t wish you had a break. Don’t try to multitask. Don’t rush. Surrender to the floor to play with trains. Make the trek to the playground. Get out the arts and crafts supplies. This is your life and there will be a time when you will be nostalgic for it. You won’t remember how tired you were or how unshowered. It seems impossible, but these are the days that memories are made. Make lots of coffee.

4. Short Siesta. Today, after a “family” time slot spent at the Bronx Zoo, I was exhausted. I wanted a break. The kids voices sounded like nails on a chalkboard and I felt like I had taken 100 sleeping pills. Initially, I just announced to my husband that “I was going upstairs.” He looked at me, mouth agape, with frantic and outraged eyes that communicated one simple thought: “Are you fucking kidding me??” He’s a nice husband, so he just said “Go.” I went upstairs, lay on the bed and spaced out for 15 minutes. I realized, that’s all I needed. I came back downstairs, ready to tackle the rest of the afternoon. I realized that this could be a great tool: the 15-minute tap out. It worked for me today and will not require major negotiation in the future, because he can take them too.

So, I realize that this may come off as simplistic, idealistic crap, but I find myself in desperate need of coping strategies and plans to survive this wilderness. What about you guys–do you feel the same way about weekends or am I alone in this debacle? What does your family do to keep the peace on Saturday and Sundays?

[Disclaimer: If these Five S’s aren’t helpful, try my other S’s on for size: Smirnoff, Sephora, Since You’ve Been Gone (played loudly on headphones in the privacy of your own home), Sauvignon Blanc and Psychotherapy (phonically, anyway…)

Christmas time usually means you spend a lot of time in malls, department stores and boutiques looking for presents, but inevitably, perhaps, shopping a little for yourself. This year, for me, it meant getting up close and personal with all of the styles and trends I’ve been avoiding for as long as I can hold out: cropped sweaters, skinny jeans (Paula has already covered this topic for all of us!), eighties shoulder pads, the tuck and roll boyfriend jeans, a flatscreen tv (I hope!), and some nice Bluetooth headphones. The TV will look great in any home, even with children hanging on it. The Bluetooth headphones are well… for me, when I just need to get away from everything and everyone. Why Bluetooth? Unless you’ve been a mommy, you probably don’t realize how irritating it can be to have a cord dangling around just waiting to be pulled. Ouch! And the fashion items, well, they can look great on a lot of women I know, but not me. I feel like I’ve been benched by the fashion industry for several seasons. Look, I know–I’m not exactly an ideal demographic right now: approaching 40, new mom, work at home. There’s not a lot of need for glamour and style in my life right now. But isn’t that kind of like adding insult to injury? I ended up caving and buying these lovely items.

4. Wide Leg Trousers by Thakoon Addition (courtesy of New York Magazine)

I realized that Christmas might just have come early for me when I took a gander at some of the looks coming out of the pre-fall 2011 and spring 2011 fashion shows. (What–me looking at fashion show looks?! Let’s just say it was a slow day.) It looks like fashion might just be working in my favor in 2011!!!

The Seventies are back, baby, with all of their streamlined and flattering silhouettes. Skinny jeans are still here, but so are wide leg trousers! Hooray! Style.com has named a top shoe trend for Spring 2011 as “walk easy.” Diane von Furstenberg is embracing the turtleneck and Max Azria is all about A-lines. We also have a trend called “pajama-wear” (I think I’ve been rocking that look for the past 3 months), head scarves (the better to hide your roots) are everywhere, and draping with layers skim the body in the most figure-friendly ways.

I know that I’ll only be able to afford these trends in the Fall of 2012 when I go shopping at Marshall’s or TJ Maxx, but there’s something in me that’s delighted by all of this. It’s almost as if there were a bunch of fashion designers and influencers who returned from maternity leave and realized that cropped sweaters and low-cut skinny jeans aren’t a good combo when you have to crouch over your children all day long (hello, plumber’s crack!). I’m not going to lie–it ain’t all good. There are still a lot of jumpsuits, pleats, some horribly unflattering hit-at-the-knee pants and (gulp) sheer maxi skirts. But still, I’m optimistic. Until then, ill just turn up my new Bluetooth headset, or zone out in front of my TV with the little ones fast asleep on me, and that’s just the amount of good cheer I need to get me through the holidays!

– 6 snap traps with peanut butter constructed and hidden, $25 parted with and almost 1 finger…no result

– Many sleepless hours and who knows how many valium and glasses of wine consumed…no result

Conclusion: Mouse = Criss Angel (little fucker!)

But finally this cat, yes, this one in the picture below, earned her weight (and that’s some serious poundage) in gold! She caught it! Frankly, we didn’t even know that she could move from that spot on the living room carpet:

I promise, this is totally a picture of a cat.

Obviously, shelling out all that money forced us to head to the bank. We were about to head inside when the bouncer at the door suggested we go home and “change,” apparently our dark glasses, hooded sweatshirts and Ronald Reagan masks were not appropriate attire:

I’m curious though, if I’d have brought my gun where could I have put it? They should really have some sort of umbrella stand near the door where patrons can store their firearms while they duck inside for a withdrawal.

After cleaning out our bank account we headed home to await a “visit” from the Easter Bunny. Our son asked if it would be “the same one I got to touch yesterday (last summer) for money (a quarter)?”:

No bunnies were harmed in the taking of this photo. I did try to take it’s gold but was promptly told by the spouse that those are leprechauns. Damn.

We had to clarify to him that, no, it would be a different bunny. But then the kid wanted to know why a bunny would be bringing him a basket of stuff and, also, what exactly this furry farm animal would put in it? We realized we had no explanation for this. The hubs said it was a celebration of spring and that the rabbit would bring him plastic eggs filled with treats. I had nothing to add to this conversation since I was too busy cowering on top of the dining room table at the thought of more vermin in my damn house AND this one was going to show up with “presents.”

As an escape I listened to NPR. They interviewed a group of vintners who are creating a pinto noir with LESS alcohol content. Basically, they are getting rid of the alcohol to boost the taste. Huh???? Ummmm…correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the booze part of what makes wine so incredibly magnificent? I mean, also, of course, it’s fabulous taste! It just seems like lowering the alcohol in wine is like having a Tequila Sunrise hold the tequila. What’s the point?

With my dander up about the upcoming invasion of rodents and the lowering of alcohol in my “medicine” I got myself to the gym. But apparently there has been a rash of nudity at the YMCA recently since this sign was posted in the main HALLWAY:

Can you imagine the number of idiots who have to confuse a hallway (open space that leads from one place to another – no doors) with a changing room (secure room with doors and toilet stalls, sinks, and showers) before a sign is both made AND framed? It scares me. A lot.

The family and I drove out to Jersey last weekend to check out the town we will soon be living in. It’s super cute and everyone was ridiculously pleasant to the point where I started to feel nervous. What’s wrong with these people? I chalked it all up to NYC cynicism and put it out of my head. But yesterday as I was waiting at the allergists office, DAYS OF OUR LIVES was playing on the tv and it all became crystal clear. I think I might actually be moving to the famed town of “SALEM!” No, not the witch burning town. . . the soap opera town! It all made sense. Quaint and quiet streets, friendly neighbors (but they’re all really sick tickets once you get to know them). This is the Salem that is home to “Bo and Hope” (aka Fancy Face), Marlena the prominent Psychiatrist who turned serial killer, and the wealthy but evil Stefano. I started to get nervous. People get poisoned here. Babies are kidnapped like every single day. You can get buried alive! Houses burn down every five seconds! Not to mention the basic stuff like blackmailing, murders, and double identities. Who is John Black? Who is he????? However, the official Days of Our Lives website kindly points out some of the really unique things about living in Salem. I’m going to detail some of them here in case any of you want to visit:

Notice how this woman is rendered totally unrecognizable by the wig. Genius!

“You have an amazing wardrobe even though you don’t have a job.”

“You can drink scotch in the afternoon and not get drunk.”

“The average pregnancy only lasts a few weeks.”

“You can get killed and come back to life, but if you vacation in Europe, you’re gone for good.”

“Although it’s a small town, you have a university, an international airport, a teaching hospital, and an international shipping dock.”

“At Salem University, you can go from student to a gifted doctor in a matter of months.”

“In Salem, your children age twice as fast as you do.”

“Wearing a wig or glasses means nobody will recognize you.”

“If you DO get buried alive you will not need to use the bathroom.”

This is all kind of weird, but I have to say I’m getting really excited about our move!

My son has recently defected from my music tutelage and eschewed all rap and hip hop for….wait for it… The Biebs! That’s right it’s Baby, Baby, Baby all the time up in this bitch! And. I. Just. Can’t. Ever. Stop. Humming. That. Damn. Song. Except for some reason I hear different words so while my son sings one song I sing something else. I always thought I was hip and young-feeling/acting (see: immature or in denial in Oxford Dictionary) but these days — after mommyhood — when I listen to something off the Billboard 100 I think perhaps I don’t quite get what the artist is trying to say:

You’re single? You can babysit! I mean, really, you can sleep in tomorrow, read a book, have a bath, go to the bathroom alone, what are you complaining about?

Rihanna sings:

Now that it’s raining more than ever

Know that we’ll still have each other

You can stand under my umbrella

You can stand under my umbrella

I hear:

What the hell? It’s not my fault that you knew it was shitty weather and yet you left your umbrella at home. I love you but there are definite limits to our marriage and sharing an umbrella is most certainly one of them!

Britney Spears sings:

All eyes on me in the center of the ring just like a circus

When I crack that whip, everybody gon’ trip just like a circus

I hear:

Ok, grocery store folk, it’s just a 3 year-old melt down in the veggie section

Nothing to see here, move along, what are you lookin’ at old man? This ain’t a circus!

I guess all this Biber mania has made me realize I’m not a twenty-something on spring break anymore and I should put down the vodka, get off the coffee table, and stop lip-syncing to Eminem.

Perhaps I should try and be more like the enterprising Kelcey of Mama Bird Diaries who recently purchased MomsforJustinBieber.com. She’s really using this Bieber outbreak to her advantage! Maybe she’ll feel sorry for me and let me climb up on a coffee table and sing my heart out with the Biebs or, maybe, at the very least, she’ll let me clean up after all the Bieber-themed fun?

I’m sitting in the apartment I bought with my boyfriend over seven years ago. It’s weird to write the word “boyfriend” – it sounds so youthful, and frankly, exciting. Boyfriend! We bought this place because we thought it was pretty. It’s one of those pre-war deals that has loads of character. It has a sunken living room that we thought would be conducive to cocktail parties (it was). The first time we looked at it we knew exactly where we would put the bar. It has a real foyer which feels incredibly grown up. We never got tired of saying stuff like “can you get my book? It’s in the foyer.” Or more likely – “watch out, the cat just vomited up a hairball in the foyer.” We loved that the apartment was across the street from a museum, the botanic garden, and my favorite – the main branch of the library. I couldn’t believe my luck that I lived so close to such a magnificent place. But here’s the thing, when you buy an apartment for its cocktail party potential, you’re not thinking about what you’ll do a few years down the road when you decide “Hey! I know! Let’s get married and then have a kid.” Suddenly your bar is holding baskets of toys and the booze is relegated to a safer more secure area in your very tiny kitchen. While it’s wonderful to have a foyer, you’re wondering why it didn’t occur to you to consider apartments with second bedrooms. I’m not saying we have regrets – neither of us has a single one, I’m just pointing out that it’s absolutely fascinating how quickly needs can change. One day our sunken living room was elegant, the next day a death trap as we found ourselves with a newly walking baby. But we’ve loved every second of our lives here. . . even as we’ve struggled to stay organized or out of each others way.

I’m really going to miss this place.

Tonight is our last night in our yellow walled apartment. We arrived as two people and are leaving as three. It’s sad, but it’s happy too. We’re moving to a beautiful house in a lovely town – I worry we won’t see our friends as often, but I know we’ll manage to see them. We have to! It’s that simple. But when all of this change feels like too much, I think of another simple thought. As of tomorrow, I’ll have enough space that I can put my liquor back on the bar. There will be an entire room just for toys. Until then, im just going to kick back, put the headphones on, and let the husband drive. It is hard being a mom…. I’m tired!

You can see it in their eyes when they look at you. Sure, they’re upset, they have every right to be, but mostly, that squint is full of Nancy Grace-like judgment. I’m pretty sure it’s the same look they’d give me if my preschooler were selling crack at the playground with a “first time’s free” offer (because my kid may be a criminal but he’s also smart). Except, sadly, P isn’t out making some cha-ching to buy himself and his mommy matching pimp cups (I really want my own pimp cup, nothing fancy, just my name in rubies), no, instead, he’s trying his best impression of Hannibal Lector, which probably creates even more vitriol than if my son were, in fact, committing a felony.

This is Park Slope. Your kid can be a lot of things but he CANNOT, under any circumstances, be a biter…Nor is he allowed to eat anything that contains sugar, preservatives, unnatural dye, etc. around other precious progeny at the playground. (Not that my kid eats unhealthy – frankly my kid doesn’t really eat – but should I give him an oreo or a fruit roll-up someday I think he should be able to eat it without the entire community going to Defcon 5 and sending him to quarantine and me to Rikers).

So now, P is in heaps of trouble! The mother of the victim has her son in a vice grip and is moving backward from us ever so slowly like P is the escaped deadly cobra from the Bronx Zoo. My reprimand of P and his subsequent apology to the child aren’t enough. So, I walk over, make tsk tsk noises over the child’s non-existent “bite” because in all actuality I caught my kid before he even got a tooth within 1 inch of the kid’s forearm. And I give the mom my most heartfelt apology (and I truly mean it!) and explain to her that yes, we take biting – or any physical action for that matter – very seriously in our house and there will be consequences. Still she shakes her head, hugs her son tight and steers him far away from us.

I even try and explain he wasn’t really going to make skin-to-mouth contact. He read a story about a monster called Abbiyoyo who pretends to eat things so now P likes to do the same. I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume (as I’m telling this to the mom and she’s looking me over like I’ve just stepped out of Snoop Dogg’s car and smell of bong hits) that she and her offspring have never heard of this Abbiyoyo character.

As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure she’s making posters right now to hang on every telephone poll in a 10 bock radius, warning other Slopers of the teeny vampire on the loose who probably has Rabies or H1N1! I’m sure they’ll be here soon with their pitchforks and torches. Should I be putting together appetizer trays and ginger ale spritzers for the hunting party or packing up my kid and cat and heading out west to seek our fortune? But then I remember I hate to cook and I’m not good with change so we’re staying put and taking our chances. I take precautions now though, so mornings go like this:

Me: Ok, P, what are we not going to do today?

P: I will not eat anybody.

Me: Good boy!

P (whispering to himself as we walk): I will not eat anybody. I will not eat anybody.

And this is the part where I’m stupefied because I’m not a helicopter mom, I’m not a tiger mom; I’m just a regular mom. One who’s trying to teach her kid how to behave. Sure, biting is unpleasant but so is hitting, pushing, spitting, and kicking, but did I mention, he’s a KID? Isn’t this what they do? And then it’s our job to step in and teach them right from wrong.